


Red, Fallen Sun

by SteveGarbage



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Loss of Faith, Lyrium Withdrawal, Original Character(s), Red Lyrium, Red Templars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-08-08 12:52:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7758565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteveGarbage/pseuds/SteveGarbage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Templar Order has fallen and the faith that had once bound Cain Wygard to it has run out. The Breach and the request of an old friend drew him to the Inquisition. The emergence of the Red Templars gave him new resolve. But not all of the Order has been twisted, an unknown force is drawing both the corrupted and the pure to the west as red lyrium spreads across the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**One**

His lungs still burned and the bitter taste of lyrium wouldn’t wash out of his mouth no matter how much he drank.

Cain’s muscles still felt odd, he couldn’t stop coughing and his head pounded. He had only come near the red crystals as he drove his greatsword through the stone-like corrupted flesh that had begun to form on the bodies of the former Templars. 

They were once his brothers. But all he saw as they descended upon Haven was an army of grotesque monsters twisted by the red lyrium. Had he not abandoned the order after Kirkwall, he might have been one of them.

He dreaded the next time he would need to take a dose of lyrium. The regular stuff. The blue stuff.

At least the aches of battle and the after-effects of the red lyrium had distracted him from the cold and wind as the column of refugees trudged through knee-deep drifts of snow. Many of the men and women of the Inquisition had been able to escape Haven, although it felt like they had been wandering aimlessly through the Frostbacks for hours. It was the middle of the night, but nobody dared to stop moving forward, wherever forward might lead them.

There had been no sign of the Herald since the battle.

The soldiers had already begun to murmur. But Cain watched the more concerned looks of Trevelyan’s inner circle, all of whom showed grave concern. Everyone else had fled and the Herald was left to stand against the monster alone.

They had all seen the corrupted dragon flying high over the peaks back into the west shortly after emerging from the secret tunnels under the chantry. The entire earth had shaken violently as snow and stones tumbled down the side of the mountain and buried Haven.

Trevelyan had obviously survived long enough to at least fire the last trebuchet. But Cain doubted that he would have been able to outlast the wall of snow and ice flowing down upon the town. If he had luckily made it into shelter, he was now buried under hundreds of feet of snow. As good as dead.

He was now just one more lost prophet to the world, an idol the people will no doubt worship for hundreds of years until the deeds and original purpose were buried under the legend. The legend would twist to serve what political cause was needed at the time and the original deeds and purpose of the man would be relegated to history books that scholars will one day regard as unverifiable myth in the face of a more popular retelling.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of rifts still peppered the land, but the Breach had been closed. Perhaps the mages or the remaining faithful of the Templars could find some way to close the smaller ones, in time.

The rifts had felt strange to Cain the first time he approached one, nothing like he had ever experienced before. He had been to places where the Veil was weak, he had fought demons and felt the pulse of arcane power as a mage was transformed into an abomination. The energy of the rifts was similar, but altogether foreign. The anti-magic skills Cain had learned across years of training and ingestion of lyrium seemed to have no effect on the rifts. In places where the Veil was weak, a surge of energy could help drive back whatever might be waiting on the other side and temporarily strengthen the barrier.

But a tear was something beyond his capabilities to mend. Only the Herald had been able to do that, and only because of the glowing mark upon his hand.

The wind had picked up and the path ahead was near whiteout conditions. But they were approaching a rocky cropping and it looked as if the column before him was slowing. Maybe they were planning to set up camp, tend to the wounded as best they could and get some fires going to try to prevent the majority of people from freezing to death. It was getting so cold, Cain wouldn’t have minded one of the rebel mages bathing him in a cone of fire for a few seconds just to warm up. Ice had formed in the goatee around his mouth and lances of frost streaked through his onyx hair.

Commander Cullen was stomping his way through the snow to the back of the column, giving directions on where to send up and issuing orders to soldiers. As he got back to Cain, he stopped.

“Cain,” Cullen said, shaking his hand. “I’m glad you made it out alive.”

“Same,” he said. He didn’t want to think or speak much more about the red horrors that had rained down on Haven. He assumed Cullen didn’t either.

His assumption was obviously right as the commander seamlessly transitioned into his orders. “They’re setting up camp further ahead, but I need some men to fan out and search for the Herald. I don’t know what happened back there, but if he’s still alive, we need to find him.”

“If the stories I’ve heard about him surviving a leap forward in time to the end of the world and back are true, I wouldn’t bet against him,” Cain said.

“Nor I.” Cullen’s face had bent into one of concern. Usually the general was more restrained than that, hiding his feelings from others much better than that. But it was cold and late and the Inquisition might be on the verge of collapse if they didn’t make it out of the mountains. “Small parties. We’re fanning out to cover the most ground back toward Haven, make a straight line out as far as you can go and then turn around and come straight back if you don’t find anything. Two blasts on a horn if you find him.”

“I’ll see what I can find, Commander,” Cain said.

Cain turned around and pointed himself slightly to the southeast back toward Haven and began walking. The people he passed looked oddly at him -- he was going the wrong way, after all -- so he kept his head down to try to fight off the wind as best he could.

He could barely feel his feet under him anymore, if not for the good, thick fur of the Ferelden-made boots. He pulled his cloak around him tighter and re-tied the belt at his waist.

The standard-issue breastplate of the Templars and the thick padding underneath undoubtedly would have been warmer. The veterans always joked to the raw recruits that the flaming sword of Andraste emblazoned on the front would keep them warm on those long nights standing guard outside in winter. But when he cast aside his oaths, he had returned the armor too.

He hated the Frostbacks. Redcliffe wasn’t exactly a mountain town, but close enough to the range and the south that bitterly cold winters often swept over Lake Calenhad. Cain could remember slowly watching as the edges of the lake began to ice over during the worst winters, locking the ships into harbor for the rest of the season.

But the winter always reminded him of hunger. There had been far too many winters where food was scarce growing up and the cold and wind brought out vivid memories of his rumbling stomach.

Cain passed a soldier with a bloodied arm that was leaking through his wrappings and Cain could smell that hint of red lyrium again. The bitter, chalky taste on his tongue flared again and he shuddered as an odd tingle washed through him. Most of the people were unharmed, but in the rear of the column he spotted several that wouldn’t survive until morning.

Some of the stragglers were carrying or pulling people that were already dead, others had fallen in the snow and were unceremoniously left there. A pitiful and sad way for a life to end, fallen in the mountains with no one around. But there was little Cain or any of the others could do. There was a good chance they’d all freeze, if not tonight, in a day or two.

“Are you going to look for him?”

Cain lifted his head to see a young man who had stopped in the snow to address him. He had a few cuts and scrapes on his face and the left side of leather armor was torn apart by slashes that he was lucky to have survived.

He carried a sword, one obviously given to him out of the forge at Haven and a wooden shield too that had far less nicks and chunks out of it than his armor. He wasn’t a professional soldier, that showed. But he was clearly Fereldan by his look and voice, somewhere from the north by his accent, maybe Highever.

“Aye. Orders from the commander.” Cain waved him over. “There’s fires and food up ahead, but if you’d rather trudge back a few miles in the snow, I’d be happy for the company.”

The young man didn’t hesitate. “I saw him, you know. The Herald of Andraste standing alone against that darkspawn and the archdemon. I don’t know how he could stand there like there. I probably would have pissed my armor.”

_ Charming,  _ Cain thought. Now that he spoke more, maybe he was from Denerim. Maybe one of the poor quarters of the city as he got a closer look at the youngster. He was too young to be fighting, Cain thought. Either came out of a blind belief in the Inquisition or an opportunity to get a hot meal now and again.

“Even a seasoned soldier would have trouble standing steady in that fight,” Cain said. “Much less someone your age. I was a little bit older than you when I started fighting and could barely force myself to lift my shield.”

“You fought in the Blight then?” He might be young, but he wasn’t totally oblivious. From his tone it sounded like he hadn’t seen much of the darkspawn during the Fifth Blight though, so Denerim was probably wrong. Not Highever, certainly, but maybe one of the poorer villages in the northern Bannorn.

“I grew up in Redcliffe, signed on with the Irregulars. Worked a few protection jobs, bodyguarding, boring stuff that kept me far away from trouble. Our company tangled with a few groups of darkspawn in the south. After that I was lucky to get signed on with a Kirkwaller noble who was heading back the Marches. Go out of Ferelden before I tasted much of the Blight.”

The rest of his family had gotten the worse end of the deal. Father and all three of his sisters, killed. Or worse.

“I’m Dominic, by the way,” the youngster said.

“Cain Wygard.”

“You’re a Templar?” As the next question poured out in sequence, Cain was beginning to regret asking the young man along.

“That’s a complicated answer, nowadays. I trained as a Templar, swore my oaths to the Order and I still take the lyrium. But I don’t even know what the Order is now. Some Templars still protect the Chantrys and the people, some roam the countryside like bandits and then there are those … things.”

He could taste the bitterness on his tongue again, although the cold was distracting him from the headache he had developed. The pounding had subsidized, but there was a lingering dizziness and nausea that was beginning to settle in its place.

Far in the back of his consciousness, a pulsing, almost like faint music. Discordant and barely there, but still, he could hear it on the edges of his thoughts.

“Well it’s good you’re with the Inquisition,” Dominic said.

“I wouldn’t be if it weren’t for Commander Cullen.”

“You two friends?”

Cain chuckled. “I don’t know that the commander has many friends. Maybe I’m closer than most. We served together in Kirkwall when I joined the Order.”

“Wait, you were in Kirkwall?” Dominic’s eyes lit up excitedly.

“I know, I can’t seem to keep away from the trouble. Not half as frightening as darkspawn, but certainly not a fun period in my life either.”

He could still remember the way the entire city shook as the magic tore up out of the Chantry and blew into the sky. Pieces of stone fell like flaming meteorites across the entire city, smashing through building and killing the unlucky in the street who couldn’t get out of the way.

He had been sitting at the edge of the docks, watching the ships come in and out of the port. The lapping of the water and the snapping of canvas always reminding him of his youth in Redcliffe. The burning bits of the cathedral pierced the entire quarter of the city.

Before he knew it, the Knight Commander had ordered the entire Circle annulled. The entire city erupted into chaos -- mages and Templars killing each other in the streets, demons possessing mages and killing indiscriminately.

And then everything that happened in the courtyard of the Gallows. Knight Commander Meredith trying to seize the Champion. Statues coming to life and tearing apart the courtyard. The red lyrium petrifying her.

“I try not to think about it too much. Commander Cullen asked that we all stay on to try to retain some sort of order in the city. We did for a while, but then the Lord Seeker declared the Templars no longer held any allegiance to the Chantry. Cullen said he wouldn’t hold us to our vows, but hoped we would stay.

“I had had enough of the Templars after that ordeal. Harrowings. Blood mages. Red lyrium. I decided to come back to Ferelden. Barely even made it home to Redcliffe before all this,” he made a sweeping motion in front of him with a hand, not indicating anything directly, “started happening. What a mess.”

Dominic nodded and pulled his legs up through a particularly deep drift of snow. He was a head shorter than Cain and having a harder time keeping up. “But the Herald of Andraste. I mean, sent out of the Fade by the Bride of the Maker herself! I had to come join the Inquisition after hearing that!”

Cain snorted quietly to himself.  _ “If it is true.”  _ he thought.

But this was a bright-eyed youngster. He had no idea what he was getting himself into. He was lucky to survive Haven. Maybe if he was lucky he’d survive the night too. But if the Herald was dead as he expected, that faith would run dry pretty quickly.

Dominic stumbled and caught himself in the snow with one hand. Cain extended a hand down and helped pull him back to his feet as the young man shivered.

He’d find out the truth soon enough. 

He wouldn’t need Cain to talk down to him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

The aged towers jutted into sapphire skies, but Cain had opted to surround himself with the flapping of canvas tents in the wind and the smell of campfires.

Skyhold was an impressive bastion, for sure. Why someone had chosen to build such a stalwart fortress so deep into the mountains, he couldn’t guess. Despite the wind and snow this high up, the stone walls and towers were in better condition than he might have expected.

It had been the middle of the night when the Herald of Andraste stumbled into the camp. Cain and Dominic had wandered until the footsteps of the Inquisition soldiers had faded into snow drifts and began to turn around when the horn blasts rocked the mountains.

_ “Alive. Unbelievable,”  _ Cain had thought.

If Trevelyan wasn’t actually divinely touched, he was at least devilishly lucky.

The recruits were pacing back and forth, practicing footwork and throwing attacks and parries back at each other. Some of these men appeared to be soldiers, but many were raw. Too raw to be anything more than corpses if another pitched battle broke out, Cain thought.

Dominic was in the latter category, as Cain ran them through some exercises.

“Soldiers aren’t creative,” he drilled. “The first strike you face is likely going to come at your left side, chest high as they charge. If your shield isn’t up to protect your flank, you’ll be dead before you even get the first opportunity to swing that shiny sword.”

The first line of recruits stepped forward, throwing a slash from their right side. The line across from them stepped back and lifted their shields to block it.

As he had expected, many of the soldiers who were wounded in the mountains never made it to Skyhold. The cold, the stress of the march and the thinner air in the elevation all took their toll.

The mage healers did what they could, but by the end of the first night, they were exhausted and some on the verge of collapse themselves. The more traditional healers patched what they could, but they lacked supplies after having to flee Haven in an instant. Trevelyan had managed to save the herbalist Adan, but the potions, poultices and herbs were all lost to flame.

“For some of your recruits, that shield is going to be the only thing that keeps your head on your shoulders. Now the other way!”

The blocking line stepped forward throwing a slow slash, while the others lifted their shields to block. Everything was happening at about half speed, as he had designed. Letting a teen with a practice sword try to go at normal pace was like trying to guide a wild druffalo.

“A piercing wound only needs to be inches deep to be fatal. A stabbing strike is much easier to land and much harder for your enemy to block. You can stab a man while still hiding behind that pretty shield of yours. Right line, slash! Left line, block and stab! Go!”

The recruits slowly went through the motions, tossing loping strikes. The others caught it on their shield and thrust the dulled blades forward, touching the chests of their partners. Several had pulled their shields far to the left sides of their body, despite Cain repeating for the last three days to keep it tight into their chest.

He walked down the line to the third grouping, stopping before the two young men who had come from Orlais. They had said they had practiced swordfighting with each other daily for the last year and giggled, and Cain was becoming blatantly aware they were talking about the kind of sparring Orlesian dandies did in their bedchambers, not on the battlefield.

He grabbed the shield and pushed it hard up against the young man’s chest. “Raoul, I swear to the Maker if you keep floating that shield out there like a kerchief, I’m going to send you right back to Val Useless where you came from. If you want to die in battle, I’m sure we can find a position for you in the middle of the civil war.”

The Orlesian was already dripping in sweat and they had just started their exercises. He certainly wasn’t familiar with physical exertion. Cain didn’t know where he came from, but he was no soldier. “Yes, instructor. Sorry, ser.”

Cain stepped out of the line. “Left, attack. Right, defend. Again!” They moved. Raoul’s partner -- 

Alber? Alain? Artur? whatever it was -- at least kept his shield in tight as he blocked and counterstruck. One of the recruits farther down was swearing as his partner had apparently jabbed him harder than he thought was cordial.

“Switch and again!”

Tradesmen had been pouring into Skyhold for the last month as the Herald -- Inquisitor now -- sought to get the keep into better shape. Age and abandonment had left it in a state.

The tallest keep appeared to be in good condition, but several of the smaller towers had crumbled around the edges. The walls needed repair in multiple places and the southeastern wall had almost fully collapsed.

That wasn’t to mention chasing out the wild animals who had taken up residence -- birds, rodents and a small brown bear that was quite unhappy to see the Inquisition. One the scouts had nearly lost an arm to the thing before they were able to put it down.

Cain hadn’t been up yet. He hadn’t been invited and wasn’t all that interested. Commander Cullen had appointed several of the Templars and other seasoned soldiers to oversee drilling the recruits, so he was happily putting his skills and knowledge to use here.

He had never been the most talented fighter and honestly it had been years since he used a shield himself. He had always favored the reach and power of the greatsword, but also the danger of it. The long blade required more skill and attention to wield successfully against another armed foe, and gave little to no protection against a mage.

But it was the preferred weapon to sit in on Harrowings, and he had been asked to oversee far more of those than he wished to recall in Kirkwall.

Whenever he could draw an assignment to leave the great walled city and track apostates or escapees, or go pick up young mages to be brought to the Circle from the outlying villages in the Free Marches, he always took on those. Days traveling the countryside, an occasional good fight or the chance to soothe a child frightened to death by the prospect of leaving their family to become part of the Circle, all were better than the Gallows.

Honestly, who keeps a name like “The Gallows” for any part of their city, Cain had often thought. A twisted joke on the poor mages trapped inside.

“The Templars are skilled fighters, but the Red Lyrium has stripped them of their sense. They are wild, but twice as strong as a normal man and three times harder to bring down now.”

Some of the blows he had parried in the attack on Haven were so fierce they sent shockwaves up his arms. He had hewed the arm off of one of the red foot soldiers and it kept coming at him. He had ripped wounds open in others that would have dropped a normal man screaming to his knees, but it barely phased the Red Templars.

And that taste. It had finally subsided about two days after the attack, but only after he had taken double his normal dose of blue lyrium. Since leaving the Order, Cain had been trying to slowly wean himself off. Stopping all at once might drive him mad like the addicts he’d see or the aged Templars who were so addled they could barely hold a conversation any more. But without the Chantry keeping a steady supply, relying on too much would run him dry and he’d find himself seeking out shady smugglers or dust dealers in the slums.

There was pain sometimes. Some night he would be plagued by strange and frightening dreams. Other times his mind would drift, as if his thoughts were lost somewhere in the beyond. But he had cut his consumption back to every other day so far, and only at half the dose he had once taken in Kirkwall.

What was perhaps most frightening about the fight in Haven was that as he smelled the vapors and was spattered with their corrupted red blood, he felt invigorated. That hole in him that lyrium used to fill was alight with pleasure and his strength surged just by being around it. His thoughts scrambled and his rage was hard to push down. His guard had been sloppy, but his blows hit so hard he thought he might have broken the blade.

All from just being near the red lyrium. The memory of Knight Commander Meredith stumbling and shouting, red light and electricity filling the sky and then a snap -- flames, screaming and nothing left but a horrific, petrified form frozen for eternity on her knees.

“The Venatori are just men like you. Tevinters have their heads so far up the mages’ asses they can barely remember how to use a sword. Block, parry, stab. They wear thick armor, but they are sloppy fighters. Even you sad lot could fight off an army of their foot soldiers.”

The soldiers shuffled into their next drill as he continued to speak. Slash, block, stab, parry, guard, reset.

“The Inquisition will be moving into Orlais soon. You Fereldans may think the Orlesians are a bunch of powdered, mask-wearing fancies like Raoul here,” Cain said, shooting another harsh glare that made the recruit snap his shield closer to his flank. “But there’s a reason why they conquered and held Ferelden for a hundred years.”

The Wygards, his bloodline, had learned of Orlesian might the hard way.

“The rank and file are well-trained in combat. Their archers spend years at the butts and their bows can fire near as far as a Dalish. And if you see the yellow feather of a chevalier in a helm, you better get ready to meet the Maker because he’ll kill the entire company of you lot without breaking a sweat.”

An Inquisition messenger had come up behind him as he watched the line of recruits spar back and forth. “Ser, message for you!” the young woman said. She wasn’t armored like some of the others, but instead dressed in noble’s clothing, a red velvet with golden buttons molded like lion’s heads down the front. Her accent was Orlesian, but not so thick. Jader, perhaps.

Her posture was better than the usual rabble, but not so uptight and preened to be Orlesian nobility. Her family had been wealthy, perhaps, trying to jump a rung into higher society. She was young, not terribly pretty but not unpleasant to look at, her blond hair pulled back in a single braid perfectly knit, wound and pinned. She might have been married off to some aging lord down on his luck in an attempt to secure more wealth for her father.

Now she was here, running messages. The Breach had certainly caused strange bedfellows.

“Recruits, halt!” he shouted. “Three miles, in your gear. Only then can you get a meal and then report to Knight-Sergeant Tavon for more instruction. Dismissed!”

The soldiers groaned at the distance, quietly whined to each other but began jogging away. If he could continue drilling them, maybe half would survive the next battle, at this rate.

“Ser Wygard, your presence is requested in Skyhold. I’m to bring you to the main hall immediately,” the Orlesian messenger said.

“I’m no ser. I gave that life up,” Cain corrected her. “Whose request?”

He expected Cullen.

“Ambassador Montilyet, ser,” the Orlesian cut herself short and paused for a second, finishing unsteadily with, “Uhhh, Messere Wygard.”

He didn’t care for Orlesians, but disliked pomp and ceremony no matter what nationality it was coming from. He knew exactly what the ambassador would want from him. “Lead on,” he conceded.

The approach to the fortress was intimidating. A wide but long walkway leading to the towering gatehouse. Soldiers had moved ballistae to the towers and a hundred archers could stand atop the battlements and rain arrows down upon the walkway.

The tall walls, although worse for wear, stood atop steep cliffs falling down hundreds of feet into the valley. There was only one way into Skyhold, and it was the murderously long trek up to the gates.

The metal portcullises were old, but they still appeared sturdy and strong. He had been hearing from a few of the dwarves who would brag that only the Smith Class back in Orzammar could have forged a better gate. The smiths could do a better job in their sleep, they boasted, but still, the compliment to whoever had built the fortress before was apparent.

The interior of the gatehouse itself stretched longer than most keeps. Murder holes above, another interior gate and overlooks from either side where defenders could rain down more fire or descend to take the fight to equal ground before the enemy ever penetrated the walls.

As Cain came within the bailey, the sight of scaffolds were everywhere as masons did what they could to rebuild walls and towers. Surgeons were treating the wounded in the yard as best they could. Others were still in the process of clearing brush, draining standing water and clearing paths to get around the yard toward the stables in the south.

He ascended the criss-crossed steps and came in the main hall, which was still overrun by scaffolds. Some Orlesians were high up in the far back of the hall working on the colored glass now ablaze with the light of the still-rising morning sun.

Skyhold was still a mess, but progress was being made.

The ambassador’s office was little more than a desk and piles of leatherbound books at this point. But Josephine Montilyet looked as put together as ever as she scribbled upon parchment, her quill swooping across the page like an elegant dancer leaving black traces in the snow.

“Ambassador, Messere Wygard, as requested,” the Orlesian said, gave a short bow and scurried off on her next assignment.

Josephine made one last pass across the bottom of her page, giving one lavish swipe he could only assume was her signature and then she stamped down quickly with a wax seal, giving one slow blow across the hot wax to help it cool.

With a smooth grace, she rose from her seat and crossed to Cain, her shoulders high and proud and a welcoming smile across her lips. Her eyes betrayed that she had slept little since arriving in Skyhold, but her posture was as sure as a chevalier at tournament.

She was highborn and high-raised, unlike the messenger. The Ambassador immediately commanded respect in the angle she presented her body, the pitch of her head and gait of her steps.

“Ser Wygard, thank you for coming,” she said. “I apologize for the disheveled state of the main hall, but as you know, it’s been a trying few weeks.”

“Cain is fine, Ambassador,” he said.

Josephine gave a slight nod. “Of course, Cain. Commander Cullen has told me some of what transpired after Kirkwall. You left the Order, but still, he speaks highly of your abilities. From his assessment, I am glad you have decided to stay with the Inquisition.”

“Appreciated,” Cain said. running his hand across his mouth and his goatee.  _ “Buttered. Now here comes the ask,”  _ he thought.

He had always had a talent for reading a situation, and his intuition was on target once again.

“You spent many years in Kirkwall, but it’s been brought to my attention that your family is Fereldan. I’ve been able to research a little bit about House Wygard,” Josephine began before Cain interrupted.

“With respect, Ambassador, there is no house any longer.”

The interruption didn’t deter Josephine, “Yes, Bann Markus Wygard was executed by the Orlesians in 8:80 Blessed. His two sons killed and his lands razed. A horrible deed that did not fit the crime. I understand the brutal executions galvanized many more of the local freeholders to Queen Moira’s cause.”

“You seem to know as much of my family history as I do, Ambassador,” Cain said.

Josephine picked up a tablet from her desk, complete with burning candle, inkpot and quill. Her step cut in the floor and she spun on her heel, slowly back to face him. The way she turned, almost like a trained short-blade fighter. Perhaps the Ambassador could cut with a knife as well as a word?

“The Inquisition was struck a nearly fatal blow at Haven. We are rebuilding, but we need whatever resources we can call upon. I’ve put in inquiries to as many nearby houses in both Orlais and Ferelden as I can. Inquisitor Trevelyan has won us critical goodwill by closing the Breach, but any influence we can call upon from within will be invaluable while we await return on our calls for aid,” she said.

“I’m sorry, Ambassador Montilyet, but as I said, House Wygard is no more. My mother lived as a commoner in Redcliffe almost all her life. She didn’t even know she was the last surviving Wygard until after she gave birth to my oldest sister the year after King Maric took the throne. She didn’t have any proof outside the word of a dying sister in the Chantry. Me, I grew up as the son of a carpenter and a lay sister of the Chantry. 

“There is no influence to call upon,” he said.

His grandfather had given refuge to the Rebel Queen and her army for just one night as they fled chevaliers. He stalled the Orlesians as they entered his land long enough for the Queen and her fighters to slip away into the woods around the roots of the Frostbacks. The chevaliers had been less than a half day behind and riding in force, and they took Bann Markus’ meddling as a grievous affront.

He paid the price. A small noble holding, more than a hundred years old, destroyed in totality by Orlesians at their pleasure. The Wygards could never claimed to have been strong, to have been defeated so easily.

“King Alistair is most grateful to the Inquisition for expelling the Venatori from Ferelden. Arl Teagan is likable enough with the people, but he is proving not to be the strongest leader in Redcliffe’s storied history. A carefully placed request in Denerim to restore a Bann with the Inquisition’s backing under the Arl’s service would be favorably met by the King, I believe.” Josephine played her hand well. She was Antivan, cut in Orlais, but she already seemed to have a firm grasp of Fereldan politics too. Cunning and shrewd, he could instantly see why she led the Inquisition’s diplomatic endeavors. “The move could rally additional support from the foothills if one of their own was returned to rule--”

“There’s nothing left to rule, as I said,” his voice had gotten a little louder and stern without him even realizing as he interrupted her again. “With all due respect, Ambassador.”

The door behind him creaked open and Cullen stepped in, passing off another report to a messenger who scurried away. The commander looked over both Cain and Josephine and could immediately feel the tension.

“I told you he wouldn’t like the idea, Josephine,” Cullen said.

“So you did, Commander,” she said, spinning on her heel and scratching a single line across the parchment tacked to her handheld board. “If you should happen to change your mind, Ser Wygard, I can send word to Denerim immediately.”

Cain nodded in understanding and turned, giving a stern glare at Cullen. The ambassador wouldn’t have known anything about his background, that he was even part of the Inquisition, if not for a another former Templar, he was sure.

“Maybe I have a something more suited to your tastes,” Cullen said, pointing forward. The commander opened the door on the back wall, stepped over a pile of bricks still scattered on the floor from the broken wall and opened the much larger doors at the end of the hall.

Inside, a large table hewn from what must have been an ancient tree sat in the center of the otherwise empty room. A giant map of Orlais and Ferelden was spread out along it. Several wooden figures were scattered across it, some knives driven into specific points. Redcliffe. Haven. Other smaller pins were sticking up from various other locations.

Critical decisions were being made over this map, Cain realized. 

The war room.


	3. Three

**Three**

The war table was impressive.

Cain had a love of maps as it was, but this one was alive. The pieces still moved. The soldiers they represented could live and die still if they were moved the wrong way.

The enemy’s pieces moved too, beyond the Inquisition’s vision. They were still mostly blind here in Skyhold, with only the frequent ravens flying in and out of the rookery filling in for eyes that had nearly been put out entirely at Haven.

“I suppose I have you to thank for the Madam Ambassador?” Cain said as they approached the table.

“I didn’t think you were the type to want to raise a banner and ride off to your ancestral homeland,” Cullen said. “But I have been known to misread people. I’m sure Josephine told you we’re in need of immediate allies and support.”

“In more -- colorful -- speech, but yes,” Cain said. 

He didn’t try to mask his disdain for politics in front of Cullen. But the commander had changed since Kirkwall. Cain could see that in the way he carried himself as he circled to the other side of the war table. He had many more lives weighing on him now, but somehow Cain expected the challenge had pushed his abilities even further.

He had been able to hold the remnants of the Templars in Kirkwall together and maintain some semblance of order in conjunction with the City Guard. That was a small miracle in itself.

Cullen’s jaw was tight and his posture was stiff. He was in pain. His eyes darted to check the door before looking back down at the map.

Cullen, too, must have been weaning of the lyrium.

This morning had been better than others for Cain. His mind felt sharp and his body was sated. Still at the edges of his mind, he could feel the tug.  _ More. More. Please. _

“Inquisitor Trevelyan has left east with Hawke for Crestwood to try to find out what is going on with the Grey Wardens,” Cullen said pointing to the small tower placed in northern Ferelden with his left hand. With his right hand, he pointed to Orlais. “The situation over here is a downright mess at the moment. The civil war has torn up the east of Orlais, but discussions about peace talks are now being bandied in the Dales.”

“Where are the Red Templars?” Cain asked. He could care less if the mask-wearers were trampling each others’ rose gardens over who got to wear the biggest britches and the most golden rings in Val Royeaux.

Cullen smiled in approval at Cain. “A man of a single mind and purpose. I knew you’d be perfect for this assignment,” he said. He looked back down on the map, leaning on both arms at the northern edge where the Free Marches and Nevarra were only partially represented. “We don’t know exactly where the Red Templars are coming from. We’ve gotten reports they are in the Emerald Graves here and a large force set up in the Emprise here,” he pointed to the two locations in the Dales.

“We don’t have enough forces in Orlais to strike those positions,” Cain said, himself leaning down at the map. They had just recently made it to Skyhold and their power base was all in western Ferelden at this time.

“Precisely,” Cullen said. “We thought Therinfal Redoubt would be a stronghold. That’s where the Lord Seeker was heading when he pulled all the forces out of Val Royeaux. But our scouts are reporting it’s been empty since we liberated Redcliffe Castle. They certainly were there before. There’s enough red lyrium around the place so we’ve set up outposts to keep people out. But the Red Templars are gone now.”

The knife driven into Redcliffe protruded from the table. Trevelyan had chosen to liberate the mages instead of the Templars and the apparent cost was losing the Order to the Elder One.

The Templars he had come across in the Hinterlands weren’t worth saving. They preyed on travelers like bandits and killed any mage wielding a staff just because they carried it. They had all fallen so far from what had once been, a dignified order Cain had been proud to join years ago.

Hightown was ablaze as the Qunari ravaged their way up to the viscount’s estate. As soon as the attack started, Messere Dolan, his patron and employer, had gone to assist the city guard in trying to repel the horned ones from storming up into the richer quarter.

Dolan, Cain and the city guard had tried to hold the steps coming up from the merchant district for a few minutes, but the ferocity of the Qunari quickly overwhelmed their position. They were nobles and hired protection, a few guardsmen, but none of them soldiers.

When the Qunari axe ripped through Dolan, Cain and the others had fallen back deeper Hightown. The Qunari didn’t give chase. Like a flooded river, they cut a path only forward with purpose to the viscount. Anyone who stood in the way was butchered. Those who didn’t impede their progress were left alone, more or less. Some of their painted fighters spread out, kicking their way into homes and dragging out hostages.

Cain and the survivors who could still fight had backed into a dead-end alley, pushing the women and children as far back out of sight as they could, while the men packed the entrance, vigilantly preparing for an attack.

The Templars were the first to break their way into Hightown. He watched as Knight Commander Meredith carved her way through the Qunari with a wing of Templars fanning out behind her. They moved with a fierce but symphonic grace as they struck down sentries and painted soldiers, almost beautiful despite the bloodshed they left in their wake.

One of the knights had come to their alley and spotted Cain and the others guarding the survivors. His full-helm masked his face, but Cain would always remember the slight nod and the words he spoke, “Good job, lads,” and he escorted them to safety while forces elsewhere, the Champion included, charged the keep.

Cain was initiated into the Order within the year.

His mother had lived a life in service to the Chantry. Matilda Wygard, just an infant, was smuggled out in the middle of the night as Orlesian put the blade to all of his family’s household and all of the freeholders and took the torch to every field, tree and home.

She was raised by the sisters in the Chantry at Redcliffe and spent her life serving the church, though never taking the vows. As a small child, Cain spent nearly all of his days inside the Chantry with his mother, studying with the sisters, listening to the Chanters and reciting the prayers with travelers and townsfolk.

That day he quaffed his first philter of lyrium, he had wondered why he hadn’t considered joining the Order sooner. It had all seemed right, as if his entire life had been building him up to that one moment.

The rush of lyrium down his throat had made him nauseous but his body was filled with a heavenly power, he had thought. A beautiful humming music thrummed in his head as he slept that night and his dreams became more vivid than he had ever remembered before then.

That was all a long time ago.

“Well, what remains of the force that attacked Haven has to still mostly be here,” Cain said, sliding his fingers along the spine of the Frostbacks on the Ferelden side. “The mountain passes are few and not well known. If they’re not returning to Therinfal, they’re either heading north toward Jader or sliding back into the Hinterlands.”

Cullen stood up from the table, resting his palms on the pommel of the longsword at his left hip. “Leliana’s agents report that many of the Red Templars have indeed settled back into the Hinterlands. We have a report of them working a mine east of the Rebel Queen’s Ravine. Locals have reported seeing Templars leading away wagons, covered, but heavily escorted. They must have found a vein of red lyrium.”

A twinge ran through Cain at the mention.

“The Inquisition’s army has been hurt by the attack at Haven. We can’t commit a large force anywhere at the moment,” Cullen said. “But even before Haven, we were finding success in dispatching small groups of agents and soldiers -- groups of no more than four -- to investigate areas of interest.

“We’ve got too much area to cover to centralize our command. Since we’re sending people days from the nearest outpost, we’re relying on their agency and specializations to investigate and do whatever needs to be done to further our cause. I want you to lead one of these teams and investigate this operation, if you’re willing.”

Cain bit his lip. The blurry memories of the battle at Haven flooded back to the forefront of his mind. The foot soldiers had still looked mostly human. But the corrupted knights, thickened skin peppered with crystals. The horrors who were taking a shape not even human. And the giant, crystalline juggernaut, was more lyrium than man.

He could taste that taste again. Bitter, like powder burned into his gums. The effects of the red lyrium were potent even just being near it. A non-Templar might fare better near the stuff, not being so susceptible to it’s influence.

But he knew the Order. He had seen red lyrium at its worst. He could care less whether the Order ever reformed and he certainly had no plans to re-enlist. The abuse of the Chantry had gone so far unchecked for so long. What deity would plague his world with red lyrium?

“We can’t let the red lyrium spread any more than it has,” Cain answered. “Yes, I’ll do it.”

“If you’re captured, they’ll likely try to turn you too,” Cullen said.

“I know.”

“And you’re still willing? There is a Knight of Redcliffe who knows the area that I can--”

“No, I will do this.”

Cullen sighed and slumped just slightly. He lifted his right hand to his forehead, squeezing his fingers at his temples on both sides. There was no one else in the room. A soldier could safely drop his defense in front of another soldier.

“Did you feel it too? At Haven?” Cain said.

“Yes,” Cullen said, just barely audible.

“Then you know why I want to do this, despite the risks.”

“Do you need more lyrium? Our supply is short, but I can get you a container for the road.”

“I have some. I’ve been easing off, as safely as I can.”

“Good.”

Cullen sighed once more, shook his head and straightened, putting on his commander’s stance and face once more. 

“Take two other men with. Send a report if you’re going to need support and I’ll see what we can bring in. Otherwise, I leave the mission to you,” Cullen said.

The commander grasped the grip of his long sword with his left hand and pulled his right fist to his heart in salute. “Dismissed.”

Cain pulled his fist to his heart too, gave a nod and turned out.

He stepped over the pile of bricks, turned his face to the right as a gust of icy wind blew in through the hole in the wall and stepped back into the ambassador’s room. Cain kept his head down not to make eye contact with Josephine, but she was already in a conversation with some Orlesian noble in a mask painted in indigo and yellow.

Cain kept a leisurely pace as he descended back down toward the army camp. The air was still chill, but outside of the occasional breeze, it was a clear and crisp day. From the walkway, the fingerlings of smoke coming up for the camp rose like shades into the sky until they faded away.

He’d be happy to be out of the mountains, although the mission laid before him certainly was a cause for concern. If the Red Templars were working the mines, they would likely be there in numbers greater than Cain could handle on his own.

But the Inquisition camp at the crossroads would be garrisoned and wasn’t too far away, so if he needed to wipe out the forces, he should be able to pull enough soldiers away for a quick strike.

_ “Take two other men,”  _ Cullen had said. As he descended the slopes back toward the camp he was running over who he might want to take. Certainly not another Templar. He wouldn’t want to take any of the mages either. It was partly because he had had enough of magic in the last year, but they would be just as vulnerable to the lyrium as he would.

He had spent more time among recruits who barely knew how to strap in their armor than anybody worth their weight in a fight. He hadn’t come to the Inquisition to make friends and he hadn’t had much time to do so anyway. Not like he was seeking out crowded campfires, recently tapped ale casks or musicians after dark.

Really he had only spent time conversing with one person since Haven.

As he approached his tent, he could see some of his recruits still bent over huffing and puffing, looking like they had just gotten back. He had been gone long enough that they should have been nearly to the bottom of their stew bowls by now if they had been running at any speed. They were probably loafing it on their run. One of the recruits was vomiting off to the side from the exertion.

Dominic had pulled up next to the camp fire and was eating, chatting with some of the other recruits who were in much better shape than the lazy and the privileged.

“Dominic! Defend yourself!” Cain shouted as he pulled his greatsword over his shoulder.

The young recruit turned his head and quickly set down his bowl, grabbing his training sword and his shield as Cain closed the distance between them at a short jog.

_ “Good, he had his gear close at hand.” _

Dominic’s face looked confused -- and terrified -- and the other recruits spilled out of the way. But the young man braced his weight back, holding his shield out in front and keeping his sword in his right hand at the ready.

_ “Let’s see how much he’s learned.” _

Cain twisted to the right, more slowly than he would have against a real enemy, and raised his blade. One, two, steps to close the distance and he threw the strike. Dominic’s shield came up to meet it, throwing forward with a little force to check the swing outside his body.

With his right hand, the young soldier stabbed ahead as his training had told him, Cain stepping to his right to avoid it as he knew it was coming. The sword punched forward and quickly pulled back and Dominic pulled his shield close, turned his hips and realigned to the former Templar’s new position.

_ “Good, good. Better than I thought.” _

Cain stepped right, bringing the two-handed sword up over his head and held, presenting a new attack position. He hadn’t trained them on this type of pattern yet, but to his surprise, Dominic angled his shield slightly up, lifted it a bit higher and dropped the point of his sword low toward the ground. Cain would have prefered he kept it at his chest, but he was testing the kid’s defenses.

He took a feinting step forward and Dominic quickly shuffled his feet backward. Then Cain came on the attack, quick, weak overhand strikes to the right and left sides. Dominic lifted his shield up to head height and caught both and threw a quick sweep with his sword that forced Cain to drop his blade, check the slash and shove back.

He didn’t let up. He pushed forward, thrusting with the long blade. Dominic knocked it to the right with his shield.  _ “A mistake,”  _ Cain thought. He went with the momentum, spinning to his left and whipping the long blade around in a circle, striking Dominic in the back with the flat of the blade and knocking the the young man down his knee.

Dominic caught himself on his shield but the practice sword skittered out of his grasp and bounced across the ground. He grimaced in pain at the strike and was swearing to himself under his breath.

Cain slid his sword back over his shoulder. “Why are you dead?”

Dominic let go of the shield, letting it fall out of his hand and straightened, grinding his teeth as he reached behind himself to try to massage his now-sore back. Some of the other recruits who had stopped whatever they were doing to watch were whispering to each other, a few smiling and snickering.

“I blocked my own blade in, Instructor. When I pushed your sword, I crossed my arms and couldn’t counterattack,” he said.

Cain crossed his arms over his chest and smiled.

“Good. We can fix that.”

Cain looked around to all of the other recruits that were standing and gaping. “I don’t recall giving you lot an order to stand around gossiping like a bunch of Orlesian ladies at the latest ball, and the lyrium hasn’t totally wrecked my memory!” he shouted.

They straightened at being called out.

“Dominic parried four blows before getting himself killed, and you’ll all be half as lucky if you survive half as many cuts. So I think another FOUR miles might do you all some good. Four miles, then you can finish your lunch, then report to Knight Sergeant Tavon for further instruction! Now get moving!”

Their groans of displeasure were much louder this time. One of the recruits who was already eating, not paying attention to the fight at all, threw his bowl at another and hurled some of insult that Cain couldn’t really hear. The puker did the best to wipe his mouth and started lumbering away.

Dominic was getting ready to run, too, when Cain reached out and touched his chest to stop him. 

“Not you. You’re with me,” Cain said. 

“And do you happen to know someone who is a decent shot with a bow?”


	4. Four

**Four**

Lina was an average shot, maybe good at best, but Cain had a feeling that’s not the reason why Dominic had recommended her.

The young elf had carefully combed hair that had luster like obsidian, ice-blue eyes beneath always fluttering eyelashes, a leather breastplate that had been specifically molded to her slim figure and an Orlesian accent from a deft tongue that rolled all the right letters. Apparently she also had a wonderful singing voice. 

Dominic was clearly smitten, and noticeably awkward around her.

She had a been a servant in a noble’s house in Halamshiral until Empress Celene brutally crushed the elven rebellion in the city a year ago. Lina said she escaped her master’s home in the middle of the night to head for Val Royeaux and a safer atmosphere for elves.

She was obviously lying.

But she was a capable, if not spot-on, shooter. She had assisted her lord on his many hunting excursions, she said, and would often down fowl while her lord chased a more “masculine” prey, the way she told it.

She had become quite popular around the camp in the evenings and it was not difficult to tell why. Dominic was constantly stealing glances at her as the trekked through the foothills, nearly falling over his own feet at some points when he wasn’t paying attention to the uneven ground.

It was a wonder Sister Nightingale hadn’t discovered her yet.

After descending out of the mountains, they had stuck to the Imperial Highway toward Redcliffe. There had been no sign of Red Templars since leaving Skyhold, but there were several merchants on the highway who stopped to talk. Many were already heading to Skyhold, but Cain had put in good words with many others who were looking for stable trade in light of the numerous fade rifts littering the countryside.

When they had come to three large stones sitting off the west side of the highway, Cain stopped and turned their group west toward the foothills again.

“I’m pretty sure Redcliffe is south,” Dominic said.

“It is,” Cain answered. “We’re not going far. Less than a day off the road and then we’ll be back on track. There’s something I wanted to check out.”

The west road was dirt with some stone scattered to keep the mud down, not nearly as wide of smooth as the highway. Shortly after leaving the highway, the landscape began to get closed in by trees as woods lined the sides of the path.

In the distance you could see the occasional farmstead nearby or a path cut into the wood that wound deeper in to what he assumed would be some freeholder’s home and land.

It was midday when he turned them up a barely visible path to the north, overgrown with grass and trees that had begun to encroach on what was once a road. The trees lined the path very close on both sides, but after mile walking through the woods, the foliage opened into a glade.

The lake was small, easily small enough to swim across for a healthy swimmer, and the water was surprisingly clear. Small streams ran like veins across green fields open to the sun.

On the northern side of the lake, on a small hill raised just a few feet from the normal pitch of the land, the remains of a single grey stone tower jutted up from the land. The stones still bore scorch marks, the eastern side of the tower had crumbled and lain bare. Around it, many burned stumps and fallen trees were still visible and in various states of decay.

But saplings, tall grasses and wildflowers were filling in some of the barren places.

“What is this place?” Lina asked.

Cain stopped and looked at the broken tower in the woods. He felt a sadness in the place and he questioned why he had even wasted a day walking out here. This wasn’t his home. He had never lived a day in his life here. He had only seen it once before, nearly ten years ago.

But yet he remembered the path as if he walked it a thousand times. The brush that was now overgrowing the broken bones of the old keep hadn’t been there when he last saw the glade dusted in winter snow. This land was a graveyard, but there was life to it again.

“It was called Calen’s Roost once. But it hasn’t been that in more than 50 years,” he said and continued forward along the edge of the lake.

The air was fragrant in the clearing. There were birds singing in the trees and the rustle of leaves as the wind blew filled the glade with a soothing music.

“I wanted to get a look at the tower. I figure we can rest here for the afternoon, have a good night’s rest and continue out tomorrow,” Cain said. There were no complaints.

As he walked along the waterside, Cain looked at the surrounding land. He tried to picture what it might have looked like with a few small boats out on the lake with men throwing nets or fishing with poles. The cleared fields around them would be tilled in rows, other areas fenced off and livestock grazing. Small dwellings would dot around the lake, with small children darting in and out.

But even as he tried to picture all that, his mind continually wandered to a wall of flames, Orlesians marching in their shiny armor as the entire glade burned. He could see bodies hurled into the lake, floating face down, people screaming as they tried to run for safety only to be chased down and run through by cold Orlesian steel.

As they approached the tower, Cain thought he heard voices and stopped the others. They stood in silence for a moment, listening, before Lina whispered, “I hear someone too. Two men, talking.”

Cain nodded, pressing his finger to his lips. What was left of the walking paths to the keep were around the lake, so he took them north and planned to come up along the backside of the tower. If bandits or whoever else were squatting here, they wouldn’t be paying attention to that direction.

The grass had grown up nearly waist high and the Inquisition agents crouched low to conceal themselves as the moved slowly through the brush. As they got closer to the tower, the voices of the two men was clearer.

“---nice place once.”

“A little tower, a few freeholders, yeah, I can see it. Kind of what I had always wanted.”

“A busty wife, a vault filled with gold and some peasants to order around. Sounds like a good life to me.”

A pause.

“Awfully quiet up there.”

“Aye. You still up their pretty birdie?”

There was a quiet whoosh, the sound of clinking metal and then the crackling of flames. Cain could smell smoke.

“Yeah, she’s still up there. Ready to give up yet, sweetie?”

“Go away you Templar bastards!”

That last one was a woman’s voice, for sure.

They came around the north side of the tower and Cain peeked around the edge of the broken wall. It was much as he suspected.

Two Templars, sitting at the base of the tower. The grass around them had been scorched by fire. He couldn’t see up into the tower, but he had an idea of who he would find up there.

“What’s out there?” Dominic asked behind him. A little too loudly.

The Templars snapped to attention. “Did you hear that?”

“Aye, over there.”

“Come on out, whoever it is!”

Cain shot Dominic a disapproving look. He made eye contact with Lina and with his hands, made a subtle motion of pulling one hand back like he was drawing a bow. The young elf nodded in understanding. He put up his hand for the other two to stay.

Cain stepped around the corner. “I’m here, I’m here,” he said raising his hands up.

“Where’d you come from?” one of the Templars said. They were both in their armor, both had tower shields. One carried a sword. The other a hand axe. Neither was wearing a helm, both of the full-helms were sitting on the ground next to a fallen log where they had been lounging.

Cain stepped out away from the wall and craned his neck to look up into the tower. More than half of the outer wall of the tower had fallen away, but many of the spiraling steps were still in tact. The upper floor of the tower had mostly fallen away, but enough was still sturdy. Perched at the edge was a woman, dressed in a dark blue robe and carrying a staff.

“I came up the road just now. I was looking for a place to stay overnight and saw the tower in the distance. Though it might be safe here. I heard you and thought you might be bandits.”

“Please, help me!” the mage at the top of the tower yelled down. “They’ve been chasing me for days and I’ve been trapped up here since morning! They’re going to kill me!”

Cain couldn’t see her well, the sun was high in the sky and the light was too bright as he angled his head up.

“Don’t listen to her. Blood mage. Just doing our Maker-given duty here,” the Templar with the axe said.

“That sword. Look at that sword he’s carrying, Rolf,” the sword Templar said, pointing with the blade.

“Oh yeah, I see it,” axe Templar responded. “You there, you a Templar?”

Cain glanced up at the tower again and then back at the two Templars. Neither appeared to have any corruption on their flesh. The Red Templars who attacked Haven had been wearing red lyrium crystals around their necks, but he didn’t see that either.

“Yes, I take the lyrium,” Cain said. A half-truth to mask the lie.

The Templars lowered their weapons. “Well then, brother, good to see another of the faithful,” axe Templar said. “You don’t have a shield, I take it you’ve got some honed anti-magic then, brother? Can you help us get up the tower? I really don’t want to wait here all day for this blood mage to fall asleep or get desperate and really start throwing some nasty stuff down at us.”

“Yeah, or let a demon take her,” sword Templar said. “Really don’t want that kind of scrap.”

“Don’t even try it!” the mage shouted. Her staff glowed and she hurled another fireball down at the Templars, which axe Templar easily blocked and neutralized with his shield.

The fireball was weak and wobbly, Cain noticed. Either this mage wasn’t very accomplished, or she wasn’t accustomed to fire. She looked young, but old enough to have gone through a Harrowing. Her robes identified her as a Circle mage, not some apostate. In order to survive the Harrowing she must have had a better grip of magic than that. She was holding something back.

“What’s your plan?” Cain asked.

“Depends on how much of a fight she puts up. Maybe just kill her. Maybe take her alive and have a little fun before doing our duty,” axe Templar said with a grin that told his intentions.

Cain looked up at the tower again.

“Are you a blood mage, girl?” Cain asked.

“No!’ was her quick response.

Cain turned back to the Templars and shrugged his shoulders. “She says she’s not a blood mage.”

“Of course she’s going to say that,” sword Templar said. “They never admit to it.”

“I’m not! Please ser, you have to believe me! I was just trying to get to the Inquisition when these two began hunting me,” the mage said.

Cain nodded. He looked back to the Templars. “You know, I hear the rebel mages joined the Inquisition. The loyal mages too, under the lead of the Imperial Enchanter of Orlais.”

“I don’t see no Inquisition out here,” sword Templar said.

“Piss on them anyway. They’re blasphemers. I still do my duty. Maleficarum get the sword, that’s my duty,” axe Templar added. “Now are you with us, brother?”

Cain looked up at the tower once more. The mage had pulled herself away from the edge and out of site. Probably preparing herself to sling whatever spell she needed in anticipation that they’d rush the tower.

“Aye. I’ve got a bow here around the corner. Let me get it and see if maybe I can pick her off from down here, save us the trouble.”

He turned around and stepped back around the corner of the tower where Dominic and Lina were lying in wait.

“Two Templars. Lina, hit the one with the axe. His armor is too thick and he’s got a shield, so you’ll need to be quick and take him in the head. He’s not wearing a helmet,” Cain said.

“Dominic, you follow with me. Let me take care of the other one. You circle around his flank and try to distract him. Hard foot fakes. Don’t,  _ don’t _ , try to fight him. We go once Lina takes her shot.”

They nodded. Lina pulled an arrow from her quiver and fit it to the string. She took a deep breath and spun around the side of the tower. A second later her bowstring twanged and Cain followed around the edge of the stone wall.

Her aim, this time, had been true and Cain just caught sight of the axe Templar crumpling to the ground with the shaft of the arrow sticking protruding from his skull.

“Maker’s shit!” sword Templar shouted and lifted his shield. He turned at an angle and fell back a step, trying to position himself equidistant between Cain and the mage at the top of the tower. She was now standing on the edge, crackling lighting sitting at the edge of her staff and in her left palm.

Cain charged around the corner, pulling his sword. He raised his right hand to the woman in the tower, hoping she would get the meaning to not start raining spells down on top of him.

Dominic was behind him and split out wide to the left to circle around the back of the Templar. He could tell he was outnumbered and in trouble and charged ahead at Cain, bull-rushing ahead with his shield like a wall.

Cain slid left, forcing the Templar to turn. The shield was too large to get through, but Cain didn’t need to strike. As the Templar turned, he clearly forgot about the mage behind him. She pointed her staff, firing a bolt of lighting off the tip. The bends of purple electricity struck the Templar in the back just as he was about to close the distance to Cain.

The Templar crumpled and fell forward on top of his shield. Cain raised his sword above his head and drove it down, biting through the plate armor and slicing through flesh. The sword stopped when it hit bone. The legs of the Templar twitched and fell still.

Cain pulled the sword out and drove the point into the dirt, letting it stand, and raised his hands again.

The mage on the tower still had electricity in her palm and was glaring down.

“You can stand down. We won’t harm you. We’re Inquisition,” Cain shouted up to her.

“You said you’re a Templar,” she said.

“Was a Templar,” Cain corrected. “Not like them. I serve with the Inquisition now.”

The mage hesitated. She looked at Dominic and Lina who had come up to Cain’s side and sheathed their weapons as well. The lighting sputtered out and the mage hooked her staff on the back of her robe.

“I’ll trust you,” she said. “I’m coming down.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

The mage dozed softly in the shade as the sun began to slip behind the treetops and fade to dusk.

Her name was Anya.

She hadn’t slept in more than a day. The Templars had caught sight of her on the highway and given pursuit. She had run down the west road, pushing deeper into the woods when she stumbled across the broken tower. A defensible position, she thought they would either try to push up the winding stairs where she could pick them apart, or they would lose interest and leave.

She hadn’t expected a long siege.

Cain had built a campfire and Lina had managed to bring down a hare she had stalked in the brush. If the elf had been lying about everything else in her life, she was at least telling the truth about the hunting trips.

Dominic had been sitting at the edge of the lake for most of the day with a crude pole he had fashioned from a branch and some grass he had knit into a makeshift rope. He said he could see fish still swimming just beneath the surface of the water, but none of them were biting at whatever bait he had thrown out there.

He was now skinning and prepping the hare. He had lived his entire life in a small village on the Storm Coast, so he was handy with that kind of work. Dominic continued to shoot longing glances at Lina, who wasn’t paying him any attention. His attempts at making smalltalk with her were even more awkward than his swordwork, which was improving, but still very rough. There were no elves in his village, he had confided in Cain.

While the other two had been hunting and fishing and Anya was getting her much-needed rest, Cain had walked the grounds. He climbed to the top of the tower where the mage had been and looked out across clearing in the wood. It wasn’t many acres, but enough that he could have imagined maybe on hundred or so people once lived and worked the land here. A few dozen small families, working the land and the streams and living a comfortable, peaceful life. It was an isolated garden in the Ferelden foothills that had once served his family well.

Wyvern’s garden --  _ Wygard. _

As he stood at the top of the tower, he had tried to remember all of the details of the story his mother told him. She too, had strained to remember the details, having lived here only a few weeks as an infant, far too young to have any memory of her own of the place. She had never seen this land. She never left Redcliffe -- not to visit here, nor to ride to Denerim to ask for it to be returned to her.

It had been destroyed, thoroughly, she had been told. She had nothing, no proof of her birth, no money, no family heirlooms to prove this land should be hers by right. She served her entire life at the Chantry and prized its lessons of humility and peace. The flicker of grandeur she might have had once was snuffed out soon after she gave birth to her first, beautiful daughter.

Then Eliza was a mage. The twins, too, both mages. Magic had penetrated her womb and taken root. For years, they had feared Cain too might have the curse. But it never came, not like his sisters.

His mother passed the name Wygard to him. She had given up on the thought of reclaiming land and title. But if her son wanted that life, she wouldn’t rob him of his bloodline. Cain’s father hadn’t objected. He was common. He had no name to give.

He looked out into the lake, at the pile of white stones protruding just out of the center of the water. The smooth, round stones weren’t natural there.

Cain tried to remember. It was the Storm Age, the same year as the end of the Third Exalted March, right? His history was rusty and his dates fuzzy. 7:84? Yes, that had to be right, the Orlesians burned it in 8:80, not quite a hundred years.

With the Orlesians off fighting the holy war, the wyverns grew in number in the Frostbacks. The nobles would hunt them for sport, having the beneficial side effect of keeping their numbers down. But with the Empire strained fighting the Qunari, there were fewer young, enthusiastic nobles to host their lavish parties and daring hunts.

One of the wyvern matriarchs had come east over the mountains and settled into the lowlands. The woods and the water had been a suitable place to brood and the dragon-kind mother had taken the garden as territory.

The Arl of Redcliffe wanted the beast killed before it gained a foothold and became a nuisance. His two sons and a wing of knights sought out to destroy it, denying the pomp of an Orlesian hunt but still treating the outing with great ceremony and fanfare.

They returned without any trumpets or banners. Three knights had been mauled and killed. Both sons were gravely injured from the acid spit of the wyvern and several others had suffered wounds. The wyvern had fiercely defended her clutch of eggs, piled neatly in a stack at the northern edge of the lake.

His oldest son recovered, but his younger lost his sword arm to the acid. The Arl declared that anyone who killed the wyvern could claim their prize -- the land, his daughter’s hand or a chest of a gold.

How had his mother described Calen? He couldn’t recall. What would she have said? Handsome, likely. Everyone’s ancestors were handsome or beautiful in the stories. But Calen was an experienced hunter, that part he remembered.

While the arl’s sons had tried to fight it head on, Calen had set traps. Snares, spike traps, nets, poisons.

The final blow he had struck into the open maw of the beast, the point of the spear thrusting out of the back of the beast’s head. Calen carried the beast’s head back to Redcliffe. 

The arl was true to his word. 

Bann Calen Wygard was made that day. His standard, an indigo wyvern’s head pierced vertically with a golden spear.

A faded banner, burned and tattered by weather, still flew at the top of the tower. It fluttered just over the broken parts of the wall. Unreachable unless he carefully tiptoed atop the uneven and cracked stone of a top of the tower wall.

Cain ran his fingers along the rough stones of the tower. Uneven, each roughly hewn and patched together with mortar. This wasn’t a powerful keep, with carefully molded bricks stacked one on top of the other. This place fit together piece by piece over many years, with ingenuity filling the gaps.

He walked the ground, finding plots of scorched land that had never recovered. A few wooden beams here and there were still rotting away as the wild vegetation overtook them. Piles of stones that had once been walls now law scattered around the garden, with black burns still visible on some sides.

It was as he had told the ambassador, a ruin. 

But he could still feel a tugging on his heart as he stood there. This had never been his home, but it felt like his land. Towers and homes could be rebuilt, land could be cleared and tilled once again. 

But rifts needed to be closed, demons defeated and the world put back together. This land was untouched, except for the signs of the occasional traveler who had set up camp or hunters that had cut perches in the brush to stalk prey. 

It would remain.

The fat and grease from the hare began to spit over the fire as Dominic turned the meat slightly to cook another side. It was a good hare, not too meaty, but enough to give them each a good meal. Dominic had stuffed the insides with herbs and the fragrance of cooking meat reminded Cain of some of the better peddlers in Lowtown. You’d have to watch out for those trying to pawn off rats as better fare, but the few who would have good fowl, rabbits or deer were worth the extra coin.

Anya stirred in her sleep near the fire and then suddenly snapped awake, grabbing her staff as if by instinct. She quickly scanned the camp, the fire, the three Inquisition men and seemed to remember where she was and why. She lowered the staff back to the ground and sat up, running her hand through her chocolate hair and yawning.

She pulled her hair back on the left side of her face, gave it a quick twist between her fingers and pinned it, letting the right side fall loosely over her ear and down to her shoulder. Her eyes were a dull green, dim in the light of dusk.

Her robe was a navy blue, with a little bit of trim on white fur around the neck and the cuffs of the sleeves. The white was dirty, she appeared to have been on the road in the wild for some time.

“Welcome back,” Cain said. 

That was odd, he thought to himself. It was something he would say to mages after their Harrowing, but something he hadn’t said to anyone in more than a year. Mages dreamed different than other people, but he wondered why he had chosen the phrase.

Anya sat up, casting measuring glances at the three again.  _ “She doesn’t trust us, still,”  _ Cain thought, She had no reason to, he knew. Ever since the Circles collapsed, being a mage had become even more complicated than before, he knew. They had few friends before. They had less now.

“That smells nice,” she said, tilting her head toward the roasting rabbit.

“Could be better if I knew the land and could find some better herbs,” Dominic said with a smile. “Or some mushrooms. Oh, if there were some mushrooms nearby, that would really make it.”

Lina was watching the mage as suspiciously as Anya was watching them. She was cleaning her bow, wiping the wood with a cloth slowly and watching. She wasn’t actually doing anything, but the motion disguised the fact that she had her fingers wrapped around the grip, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

“Why aren’t you with the other mages? Why would you be so far away from Redcliffe and the others?” Lina asked, her eyes narrow and her Orlesian voice sharpened to a point.

“Lina, stop,” Cain snapped, shooting her a harsh glare.

Anya lifted a hand to indicate it was fine. “I understand. Us mages aren’t welcome anywhere,” she said with a frown. “I’m just trying to get away. I don’t want any of this. The rebellion, the Circles, the Chantry. I don’t want any of that. I was with the mages at Redcliffe. But when the Tevinters showed up, I ran. Whatever the Grand Enchanter was planning, I didn’t like it.

“I was just trying to get away from it all. Then I heard that the Inquisition had come and freed the mages. If I had just stayed…” she said. “I was trying to make my way toward this Skyhold place I’d heard of, when those Templars chased me here.”

She sounded sincere, Cain thought. Mages typically weren’t the best liars, he had found in his experience. Some were better than others, but there were few secrets in the Circles. Many apprentices knew that lying to the Templars often ended poorly for them, so many didn’t develop the skill. Enchanters dabbled a bit more, but Anya appeared too young to have obtained any significant rank in the Circle.

“How did you know the tower was here?” Dominic asked.

“I didn’t. Luck,” Anya said shrugging her shoulders. “There was a path. It had to go somewhere. The woods were thicker, so I hoped to be able to lose the Templars here. Instead I trapped myself.”

She looked at Cain. “Thank you again, for helping me. Those Templars, they were your own kind.”

Cain shook his head. “I was never them.” He wanted to believe that, but he wasn’t sure it was true. “What Circle are you from?”

“Ferelden,” Anya said as she changed her position, crossing her legs and placing her staff in front of her on the ground.

“So were you there during the Blight?” Dominic asked excitedly. After saying it, he wrenched his mouth, obviously realizing how insensitive that sounded. “I mean, I know a lot of mages died and, ummm, yeah, sorry.”

“I was. I was just 10 years old at the time,” Anya said. “The demons flooded through the tower. The older mages protected me and tried to fight their way up to the Harrowing chamber. They told me to run and hide. I hid under my bed in the apprentice quarters and just waited and waited. There were horrible noises echoing down through the tower. Abominations were prowling through the hallways. I was too scared to try to run for the exit. The Templars had sealed it anyway.

“Then Enchanter Wynne and the Hero of Ferelden came and saved the tower,” she said. “I never got a chance to the thank the Warden before she left the tower. A Dalish and not even a mage and she helped save us. I’ll never forget her.”

Cain knew the story of what happened inside the Circle Tower well enough. After hearing about what happened, he had written Knight Commander Greagoir directly to ask about his sisters. He had known in his heart they were all dead. The Knight Commander’s response only confirmed it.

He had read a full report on what happened after he joined the Order, as complete as the Templars and the few surviving mages could put together after the event.

His oldest sister, Eliza, possessed and turned into an abomination. The twins, Jenna and Jessa, both killed by demons.

Perhaps most disturbing, the reports indicated that Eliza had sided with Uldred. The details were fuzzy, but the investigation suggested that Eliza had been helping pull demons across the Veil. Either she brought across something too strong or too devious to control, or worse, she willingly let it take control of her.

It’s why he had wanted to become a Templar. To stop those types of mages. To prevent something so horrific from ever happening again.

And then came Kirkwall. Now he wasn’t sure whether mages had been the problem to start with. Was it the Order, the Chantry that were at fault?  _ “Magic is meant to serve man, and never to rule over him.”  _ So vague, so twisted. It was the basis for everything the Order stood for and no one could even definitively say what that all-important tenant meant.

He remembered what they told him it meant. He didn’t believe that anymore.

“Did you know my sisters?” Cain finally said after weighing it in his mind. “They were twins. Jenna and Jessa Wygard. Dark hair like mine, always smiling. Couldn’t separate the two of them if you tried. They were probably ten years older than you.”

He didn’t ask about Eliza. He didn’t want to know. She had always despised him anyway. His life, his freedom. She hated the Circle Tower and hated her life. He never doubted that she would fight on the side trying to break away. If only she had waited, she would be free now, with the other mages.

Anya’s face was blank and she paused. She squinted as if she was trying to remember and looked at Cain to study his features. “No, I’m sorry. I was just an apprentice. If they were older, they had probably moved upstairs with the other Harrowed mages.”

Cain nodded. “A shame. They were so full of life.”

A quiet fell over their camp, outside of the cracking of the hare, the wind in the trees, the rustling of Dominic readjusting the spit and the wipe-wipe sound of Lina and her shortbow. Anya picked at the fur trim on her robe, pulling some small blades of grass out of the fur at her wrists.

Lina began to whistle a tune quietly, a slow, sweet lullaby that Cain recognized. He would often hum it himself when they traveled with small child mages on their way to the Circle. As the elf slid into the next verse, Cain joined too, his whistling not nearly as smooth or sweet as Lina’s, but she smiled with her eyes and continue along as she wiped her longbow.

For a moment as they whistled together, the song dispelled the memory of Circle Tower and brought peace back to the camp. When the song ended, Lina smiled.

“Is that almost done, sweetie,” the elf said to Dominic, batting her long eyelashes. She was making a play for the best piece. Cold and unfair. Cain could pull rank and take it, but she was certainly working for it.

“Uhhh, well, let me see. Maybe just a little longer,” Dominic sputtered. He lifted the spit, caught a glimspe of Lina gazing at him and almost dropped the meat on the ground as hot grease dripped down onto his hands. He put it back over the fire and shook his hand out, sticking the burned flesh between his lips.

Lina offered him her waterskin with a smile. “Here you go, darling.” He uncapped it and poured a little bit onto the seared marks on his fingers.

Cain chuckled and Anya rolled her eyes.

The mage turned her attention to Cain once again. “So Inquisition, huh? Where are  _ you _ heading and why aren’t you with the others?” she said with emphasis to jab at Lina’s earlier prying.

The thought of red lyrium might spoil his appetite, Cain thought. 

“How about a bite of food first, then all of that second?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

The Fereldan Frostback was snoozing lazily on pillar of rock in the center of the valley.

Its dragonlings were down in the small pools and on the hills, hunting the rams and fennecs that inexplicably were still trying to graze in the shadow of the great dragon.

They weren’t the smartest animals, perhaps. But Cain and the others were planning to try to cross the same valley, so he wasn’t sure whether he was just as dumb.

The Inquisition officers camped in the Rebel Queen’s Ravine said the dragon had been still lately, occasionally taking flight to hunt. The Herald had stirred it when he came down into the valley earlier, the great dragon filling the narrow gap of the ravine with fire that had caused him and his companions to dive back to the safety of the camp. The soldiers suggested that maybe something with the mark stirred the dragon’s attention. Some of the scouts had carefully prowled down past the entrance and the dragon had never taken notice.

They had updated sketches of where the Red Templars had been spotted. There were some Templars at the mouth of a cave on the far east side of the valley, an old, out-of-use mine that was cut into the cliff face. The Red Templars came out to patrol around a few times a day, but none of the carts or wagons were coming out this way. The Inquisition held the narrow pass, so they must have been moving the lyrium out another way.

Cain had asked about circling around to try to find the exit, but the officers said it would take them miles out of the way. The cliffs were solid and there were no good passes unless they were planning to circle around toward the ruins of Lothering and then approach it from the east.

So sneaking past the dragon was the best option, if not the worst decision Cain had ever made in his life.

He told the Inquisition officers to send word back to Skyhold that they had arrived and were investigating. The officers prepared a notice and said they would get it to Nightingale’s ravens at the crossroads.

Once Cain had explained their mission to Anya, she had agreed to continue with them. She was planning to join the Inquisition anyway and after the ordeal at Calen’s Roost, she feared traveling alone.

As Cain had expected, fire wasn’t her forte. Anya specialized in lightning magic as she had shown in the actual battle. She claimed to also have some proficiency in force magic, which would be helpful if they needed to try to collapse the mine to keep the Red Templars away from their corrupted lyrium.

The group of four stood under the rocky overhang at the mouth of the ravine, all staring at the dragon snoozing quietly on her pillar of stone. 

“We’ll stick close to the south wall and try to avoid the dragonlings. Last thing we need is one of their cries waking their mother,” Cain said. “If we move quickly, we shouldn’t have any problem getting past her.”

“Otherwise we’re dragon food,” Lina said, stringing her bow, just in case.

“I’ll do what I can to keep the dragonlings distracted,” Anya said with a confident nod.

Dominic was quietly muttering the Chant to himself, preparing for a sudden and gruesome end.

Cain watched as the dragonlings prowled around. There was a particularly daring ram skipping through the puddles and getting closer to their hunting ground. He watched as the babies eyed the ram, slinking through the tall grass toward it.

“Anya, can you give that ram a nudge to the north?” he said.

She squinted her eyes. It was a long distance, but Anya’s staff jumped to life with a white light swirling up toward the knotted head. She closed one eye, stuck out her tongue and bit it, aiming the head of the staff. A second later she let the small pulse of energy go. A stone jutting out of the ground near the grazing ram burst into pebbles as the bolt hit and the ram scurried away, frightened.

The dragonlings were in their hunt and quickly pursued, squawking as they chased it.

“Now’s ours chance!” Cain said and sprinted down the hill into the valley. The others were in step behind him. They ran, their eyes split between watching where they were going and watching the stone tower where the dragon lay its head.

But the ram had done its work in drawing away any of the other lizardkind and they splashed quickly across the span, turning around the edge of the cliff and out of sight. They huffed from the exertion, but were happy to be out of danger, for the moment.

The mine was now in sight, far across the valley but he could see the wooden supports and ruts made by carts and wagons that used to come in this direction. Outside, two sentries were posted. He could see the glowing red crystals hanging from their necks, even from this distance.

The problem was they saw him too. “Shit,” he muttered. “We need to go now. Dominic and Lina flank right. Anya you’re with me. Hurry, before they call more men.”

His feet dug into the dirt and he burst ahead before the other three could react. He hunched low and pulled his sword over his shoulder with his right arm, letting the blade float behind him low to the ground as he ran. He hoped neither of the sentries was an archer.

He drew close and it was as if the Red Templars could sense another of their kind. Neither carried a bow. Two foot soldiers. Two swords, two shields.

As before, the red lyrium had enraged them. While backing into the mine to warn the others would be most prudent, both charged ahead to meet Cain.

A ball of lightning whizzed over his head, purple electricity crackling as the energy tailed behind like a comet. The Red Templars each split to a side, letting the blast puncture the ground between them.

_ “Even better than hitting one, _ ” he thought as he cut left. The distance closed and he dragged his blade up, slamming a hard strike against the Templar’s shield, driving a deep gash in the wood and steel.

He pulled back immediately and braced for the counter blow. He lifted his sword to catch the overhead strike. The force drove his arms back and he planted his boot into the Templar’s shield to kick him backward.

Cain immediately followed. He pulled his arms across to his left side and swung in a backhanded blow. The Red Templar had stumbled on the uneven ground from the kick and was flailing. The sword ripped into his shoulder and down. As the flesh gave way to steel, hot blood and the aroma of the red lyrium filled the air.

Cain’s throat was aflame as soon as he took his next breath, pulling the sword back and striking the Templar again in the head, splitting his helm and spilling red blood between the rent metal.

Cain pulled back and coughed, spinning to check the other Templar. Two arrows protruded from his shield and he was on the attack, battering blows down on Dominic’s wooden shield.

Lina was circling the field, trying to get a vantage point to take another shot. A flash of light broke the sky and a thin bolt erupted up from the ground, cutting through the Red Templar. Its body froze mid-slash, the arm hanging frozen and paralyzed in the air.

Dominic never hesitated. He dropped his shield and crossed over his body, driving his sword down with his weight and severing the sword arm in a single blow. He ducked and cut back to the right, driving the blade deep into the Templar’s greaves. Another arrow struck it in the back as it teetered and fell.

The young soldier drove the sword down quickly through the breastplate -- stabbing at the heart twice for good measure. Cain came up and severed the head with a single stroke, just to make sure.

Two down. None dead and wounded. A good start.

Cain covered his mouth and stepped away from the body. It was toxic and he didn’t want to spend any more time than he had to looking at its corrupted form.

He waved the others to follow and approached the entrance to the mine. As he stepped inside the cliff, blocking out the outside sun, he could see the red pulsing light coming from within.

There were noises. Picks swinging. Men talking. Stone crumbling. Metal wheels creaking.

The sounds seemed close. If this mine was expansive, it didn’t sound like it from their position. It likely stretched deeper, but the light and the noise was close.

He had originally intended to scout first and call in the Inquisition to help him clear the tunnels. But with the dragon guarding the valley, trying to pull too many people across the open span was likely to get them all killed.

“We’re going to have to do this on our own,” he whispered to the others. “Kill anyone wearing Templar armor and anyone who has those crystals growing on their skin, regardless.”

He considered there might be miners pressed into service within. But depending on how long they had been exposed to the lyrium, they might be too far gone to save.

“How many will there be?” Dominic asked.

Cain shook his head. “Impossible to tell until we get in there. Expect to be outnumbered.”

Anya thrust her staff into the middle of their impromptu circle. “Let me lead. If they’re clumped together, I can probably stun them all at once.”

Cain didn’t like the idea of letting a mage start blasting spells with a stone roof hovering over their heads. But if they moved ahead and ran into a dozen Red Templars, letting her unleash her powers might be the only thing that saved them.

He looked at Lina, who shook her head in disapproval. Dominic looked skeptical too, twisting his lips as if trying to make a decision. But then he dipped his head in a nod.

“We’ll be right behind you,” Cain said.

* * *

The Templar didn’t trust her, Anya realized. 

Old habits died hard, even if he said he had given up on the Order. He’d never trust magic.

Or maybe he was concerned about her casting spells in the cramped cavern. Maybe that was it? She scanned his face, but it was blank and focused.

Her mind was racing and she was trembling. Nervous. The enchanters in the Circles stressed control. Safe spells. Trusted patterns. Known exploration. Very rarely did they let a mage let loose. Too dangerous.

Lightning was unpredictable. Her mentors had tried to keep her away from it. Better left to Dalish elves and experienced enchanters. But she hadn’t listened. It felt natural. Her tutors had warned that was dangerous. Demons were always watching from the other side.

She was caught in her head. The others were waiting, she realized. Why had she volunteered to lead? What if there were five Templars, or ten, or a hundred? Up until a few days ago, she had never even turned a spell on an enemy. Now the other three were relying on her? What was she doing?

Anya tip-toed down the corridor, keeping her body as close to the wall as she could. She moved slowly, watching every step to make sure she wouldn’t trip over a stone or crack a branch or step on a nug or something. Nugs liked the underground, right?

She froze as the narrow passageway opened to a large cavern. There was heat and light. Red pulsing light. Red lyrium. There were people, a lot of people, working the mine.

Several were dressed in filthy clothes and were wrapped in chains. They swung picks at stone or carefully chiseled away the large crystals protruding from the walls.

There were only a few Templars. Two on the catwalk. Three on the ground. One was much larger, not carrying any weapons. The skin on his face looked dry as parchment and was twisted around his mouth and eyes. His helm had split up the right side where crystals were growing out of his neck and up the side of his head.

_ “Now’s my chance!”  _ she thought, opening herself to the Fade as she began to tug at some of the arcane power from the metaphysical. She felt out the wild energy. She pushed it through her arm and into the staff. It vibrated and trembled in her fingers.

There was too much stone. Stone didn’t conduct. She’d have to throw it.

She twirled the staff at her side and tucked it under her armpit to brace it. Anya stuck out her tongue, pointed the tip of the staff and let it fly.

The bolt of lightning flew in a white beam. The Templars weren’t expecting it. The bolt struck the larger one, the knight, and the lightning spilled out like a net around the other two near him. She jerked the staff back, tightening a web of energy around them.

“You better go now!” she shouted to the others.

The sudden magic had snapped the Templars on the catwalk to life. Archers. Aiming at her.

Cain and Dominic rushed around her side. An arrow shaft whizzed over her head, thankfully. But it missed wide left and Lina swore behind her.

One of the Templars loosed. Anya released the leash of magic she had been holding on the Templars -- the fighters would have to deal with it -- and pulled up a wall of force as a shield. Two arrows -- she hadn’t even seen the second -- struck and fell dead.

She dropped the wall and fired three quick snaps of lightning up toward the catwalk to disperse the archers. The elf came up along her flank with her bow drawn, whispering something quietly to herself as she waited for the Templars to come back into site.

As one peeked around, the Orlesian let fly and planted the shot into his breastplate. She quickly nocked another. “Help the others,” the elf said coldly.

“Don’t miss again,” Anya responded with equal bitterness.

One of the Templars had backed the teenager into a corner, throwing strike after strike. The young man was keeping up his defense. He was overmatched.

The elf was going to miss again, she knew. Close-combat wasn’t advisable for a mage, but she ran ahead. An arrow whizzed over her head and the second Templar on the catwalk groaned and fell.  _ “Nice shot. Should have been nicer to her,”  _ Anya thought.

The Templar who was battering down Dominic eyed her and turned as she stabbed forward with the butt of her staff. As the tip made contact with his shield, she pulsed electric through it, watching the bends vine up his arm. She swung, gathering a force at the head of the staff and connected with him, swatting him up into the air.

The Red Templar bounced on the ground, falling on his stomach. The teen pounced, driving the sword into its spine.

Behind her, she could hear Cain coughing.

The other foot soldier was dead. An arrow protruded from his thigh and his head was displaced from his body.

Cain had been knocked away and was down on one knee. His left arm covered his stomach. He was pushing up off his sword to get back to his feet.

The Templar knight had deep scratches across its chest, strikes Cain had landed. The armor was rent, but underneath it, red-stone skin had barely been nicked. The Templar held his hands apart, as if grasping a large ball. In between them, light and crackling energy formed between them.

It looked like magic but it felt … chaotic. She could feel the swells in the ether when a spell was powered by lyrium. But this was an unnatural energy. Foreign. Wild. Dangerous.

Cain stumbled his way to his feet as the ball of red energy grew between the Templar’s palms. An arrow struck its left shoulder, not even causing it to flinch as the shaft bounced away as if had hit the stone wall.

What were the shielding forms? A forcefield or wall of ice or a clump of parasitic, entropic energy. Anything.

Her mind raced as she tried to remember the patterns but couldn’t grasp it. She had hated the enchanter the Circle brought in from Montsimmard who specialized in defensive magic. He had a stupid-looking mustache. And he always smelled like Orlesian cheese. She suddenly wished she had been more tolerant.

She reached into the Fade to pull magic forward, but she didn’t know what she was grasping for. Her mind was scrambling and unfocused and the mana sputtered and died.

The Red Templar pushed his hands forward, firing the ball of red energy forward at Cain. 

_ “Dead!”  _ she bemoaned inside her head, cursing her inability to concentrate.

Cain was hurt, and had just pulled himself to his feet, but he had managed to pull his sword across his body to parry. Anya could feel the air shift. Unlike the red lyrium, that was a feeling she recognized, as if the very air was being sucked out her lungs.

Anti-magic.

The greatsword sparked with white fire as the ball of the energy struck it. Cain’s feet slid backward as the blast pushed him with its force, but his arms locked and the blade held. Flames of red light spilled around him and dissolved in vapor as he pushed against the corrupted energy.

Cain grunted and his knee buckled slightly. But his foot found purchase in the stone and locked. His dark hair was flying back as if he was being hit by strong gust of wind. She could see the muscles in his jaw and neck tighten in rigid cords.

His arms were shaking, but with a roar, he forced the blade up and away from his body, splitting the red energy. His momentum carried forward and he closed the gap between the knight. His blade, still afire with anti-magic, struck down into the Templar’s shoulder. The light of the red crystals faded as the sword approached and the blade cut as if normal flesh.

The Red Templar staggered. Anya felt another pulse of anti-magic flood off Cain and she placed her staff on the ground to keep from stumbling herself. Cain struck quick blows, flaring his Templar power with each strike as he overpowered the corrupted knight. He swung the greatsword with ferocity and cleaved the knight’s head.

It teetered, clearly already dead. But Cain slashed low, severing a leg. As it fell, he hit it again in the flank and slammed it into the ground.

The anti-magic stopped in a sudden burst. She reached out and touched the Fade, just to make sure it was still there. It was. The disruption was like losing a sense, enough to bring a mage to panic.

Cain’s chest was heaving, she could see. His body shifted and he dropped his left arm to his abdomen again. He was hurt. She ran to him.

“Cain! Cain, are you OK?” Anya said.

Before she could reach him, he lifted his left hand to her to stop her. He stumbled a step to the right. Another fit of coughing wracked his body and he turned his head away from the dead Red Templar. He hacked and spit and regained his balance.

“I’m fine,” Cain said. “I just need a moment.”

With the battle over, she now noticed the miners again. Some had stopped and were staring blankly at the Inquisition. Others continued working as if nothing had happened. One woman was now sitting on the ground and sobbing quietly.

“What about the miners, Sergeant?” Dominic said as he looked at one man who continued to swing his pick at the wall. He was shirtless and his flesh was already showing red veins pushing up under his skin. Dominic waved his hand in front of the man’s face, but he didn’t react.

There was a pause. Cain looked around at the miners, about ten of them. One had been killed in the attack, by someone. Anya wasn’t sure who was responsible. She hadn’t seen.

Cain stepped closer to one of the miners who had stopped and looked closely at the man’s face. He was older, maybe in his forties. His body was gaunt and his face expressionless. Cain grabbed the man’s chin. He didn’t protest. The Templar inspected the man, then stepped back and cut him down without a word.

“Cut the crying girl loose.” Cain said.

“Kill the rest.”


End file.
